Şiir 1
Thy sprightly fancy, and inventive wit,
The lofty style of tragic scenes will fit."
She said; and proudly rising in her gait,
Thrice shook her tresses, and display'd her state.
With open look (nor was my sight beguil'd)
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And joyous eyes her rival sweetly smil'd;
Sustain'd her hand a myrtle branch upright?
Or did my fancy form the charming sight?
"Still so severe, 0, tragedy ! (she cried);
And canst thou ne'er forego thy sullen pride?
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I not compare my lowly lays to thine;
Too weak materials for the vast design.
The style unlabour'd, negligent the dress,
My verse is humbler, and my matter less.
Gay, wanton, soft, my business is to move,
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With melting strains, the playful god of love.
Bereft of me, fair Venus wants her charms,
I help the goddess, and prepare her arms.
My luring art, and soothing lays prevail,
Where lofty port, and tragic buskins fail.
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